A Little Murder
by BaskervilleBeauty
Summary: Lestrade passes Holmes over in favour of Watson when it comes to investigating the murder of wealthy Mr Fanshawe. But can the three men convince Mrs Fanshawe to tell them what she remembers about that night?
1. Chapter 1

Unusually, Sherlock Holmes was still in his dressing gown, eating breakfast, that rainy March morning in 1890. The usual sounds of the street vendors and charwomen had subsided somewhat, and the detective's keen hearing was not unduly taxed, therefore, by the sound of a carriage at the entrance to 221 Baker Street.

"If I am not mistaken, Watson," said Homes between bites of his now-cold toast, "those leaden footsteps upon the stair belong to our old friend Inspector Lestrade."

And indeed, introduced as such by Mrs Hudson the landlady, the soaked Scotland Yard sleuth stepped into the room.

"Mr Holmes, I see am interrupting your breakfast," he said, by way of greeting.

"Your keen powers of observation have not diminished a jot since we saw you last, my dear Lestrade," smirked Holmes. "I am indeed indulging my Bohemian habits and irritating my long-suffering landlady by prolonging this repast to an hour when most have long since begun at their jobs. Am I mistaken in understanding that your presence here has something to do with your work, Lestrade?"

"You are not mistaken, Mr Holmes," admitted Lestrade.

"Well, then, Inspector, you had better be seated and wait until I have adequately prepared myself to assist you in your latest predicament!" exclaimed Holmes. Sweeping his hair back from his forehead and wrapping his robe around him more tightly, he briskly abandoned the breakfast-table, and strode purposefully toward his own room. Yet he was stopped in his tracks by the Inspector's next words:

"You may do as you wish, Mr Holmes, and take your time in doing it, for it is not you I have come to consult. I wish to see Dr Watson about a medical matter."

Holmes uttered an indistinct, but discernibly indignant syllable and retreated, while Watson - who had up to that point been happily ensconced in the cricket page of the morning edition of _The Times_ - looked up, astonished. "Me?" he asked. "Could you not have waited to come to my surgery during regular hours, Lestrade?"

"Oh no, Doctor. This is not a personal matter. I would like to have your professional opinion in a little murder case the Yard is investigating."

"Surely, 'little murders' are my area of expertise?" cajoled Holmes, emerging fully-dressed back into the sitting room. "In fact, I like to flatter myself that even large murders enter under my jurisdiction occasionally. See here, Lestrade, if this is about the Fanshawe case­—" Holmes poked a headline on the front page of Watson's discarded newspaper with his long, tobacco-stained finger.

Lestrade fixed Holmes with a look that was full of disdain. "The Yard does not need you to find us our suspect this time, Mr Holmes. Instead, we need Dr Watson to recover her to us."

"Recover?" repeated the doctor.

"Our own consulting physician suspects that it is a case of amnesia brought on by hysteria. But we would value your opinion," replied Lestrade.

"But I have very little experience in matters of the mind," protested Watson. "I was trained as an army surgeon! If it was a matter of extracting a bullet, or amputating a limb, then I would be your man!"

"Come, come, Watson, you must see sense through your usual modesty. It is clear that you possess certain skills with which the other members of the Royal College are not blessed," observed Holmes, who was leaning against the fireplace, his arms folded across his chest. "Your military training makes you sympathetic to the procedures and organization of the police, and your gentle manner can calm the victims of a crisis."

"Precisely," assented Lestrade, without looking at Holmes. "So you will help us, doctor?"

Flattered thus, Watson had no choice but to gracefully accept the invitation.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks to my reviewers: Susiecar, anonymous, and JA Lowell. I think I know where this is going now…_

The rain had subsided to a fine mist by the time Holmes and Watson joined Lestrade in a cab to Belgravia. On a fine day, they might easily have walked along the Park; although Holmes found the cool moist air refreshing, Lestrade lacked the detective's Romantic spirit, and opted instead for a more business-like mode of transport – a humble hackney.

"I took the liberty of arranging for our physician to meet you at the Fanshawe residence, Dr Watson," said Lestrade as they clambered into the cab. "He should be able to better describe to you all the medical details of the case, one professional to another."

As Watson nodded in agreement, Holmes leapt in with a question. "As you have so generously allowed me to go along with you as an interested observer on this investigation, Lestrade, perhaps you could oblige me further and explain the details of the case as you found them? I'm certain our friend the doctor would also appreciate some context for his medical consultation."

Lestrade shrugged, and indeed obliged. "We were alerted by a servant in the Fanshawe home – "

"How many servants have they?" interrupted Holmes.

"Five: a butler, a footman, a cook-housekeeper, and two between-maids," answered Lestrade with an annoyed frown. "As I was saying, we were alerted by one of the servants – "

"Pray forgive me, which servant was it?" Holmes interrupted again.

"Mrs Dobson, the cook."

"Thank you very much. Please continue." Holmes leaned back into his seat and closed his eyes to listen.

Lestrade inhaled deeply and started again. "Mrs Dobson, the cook, alerted the policeman on the beat at approximately 3 o'clock on Tuesday morning of a disturbance in the Fanshawe residence. The master of the house, Tobias Fanshawe –"

"The insurance man," clarified Watson.

"The very same. Mr Fanshawe was found on the dining-room floor, dead and still bleeding from a blunt force injury to the head. Mrs Fanshawe had apparently been knocked backwards, htting her head on the fireplace mantel and was thus rendered unconscious. She was revived by Duty Constable Black, but immediately entered a state of hysteria. She was incomprehensible to all present, and was therefore sent to bed while a doctor was notified."

"And since then?" asked Holmes.

"Mr Fanshawe's body was removed to the morgue, where the coroner determined that the death was suspicious. His sister, and closest blood relation, a Mrs Whitemore, was alerted and has come to identify the body and to make the funeral arrangements. Mr Fanshawe's solicitor is helping the police to sort out his personal papers."

"But you say Mrs Fanshawe has not improved since her injury?" asked Watson.

"Her injury was not serious – s scratch and some minor bruising – the doctor assured me it was very superficial. And she has calmed down significantly since Tuesday. But she claims to have no recollection, not only of the night in question, but of even of her own identity. She is unable to name the simplest facts of her life."

"What are those facts?" inquired Watson.

Lestrade shrugged. "Fanshawe was a confirmed bachelor, well known as a man of strictly business. He surprised everyone three years ago, when he married a woman half his age, the daughter of his senior clark. It would have been a scandal, but he bought a house in Belgravia, and settled quietly to to enjoy what appears to have been a typical middle-class lifestyle."

"Until Tuesday morning," commented Watson, shaking his head.

"Precisely, Doctor. The servants cannot account for it – the master and mistress returned home from the theatre late, having allowed the staff to retire early, as was the usual practice. The household was awakened by a clattering in the courtyard. When they descended to investigate, they found the scene of the crime and raised the alarm."

"And have you investigate the 'clattering in the courtyard?'" asked Holmes.

"There was no sign of forced entry or exit, and we have found no trace of a murder weapon," admitted Lestrade with some chagrin.

"Have the Fanshawes any children?" asked Watson as the cab pulled into a leafy suburban street off Hyde Park, and the horse slowed to a sedate trot in keeping with the solemn dignity of the neighbourhood.

"No, they have not. Fanshawe's solicitor tells me that apart from some minor disbursements to faithful servants, favoured charities, and small legacies to his nieces and nephews, the bulk of Mr Fanshawe's fortune will go to his young wife. And being an insurance man, he ensured that the sum of the insurance money paid in the event of his untimely death would see his widow become one of the richest women in her class. They are already among the very few in the neighbourhood to own, not let their house, and it is practically on the park, as you can see!"

"Was anything taken in the intrusion?" asked Holmes.

"No," answered Lestrade.

"At least, it was not so obvious as to be noted as missing by one of the servants," clarified Holmes with a smile.

Lestrade nodded. "Precisely what I meant to say, Mr Holmes."

"No doubt, no doubt, my good man! And so, two days after the crime was committed you have no motive, no evidence, no witnesses, and no suspects, except a phantom intruder who came into the Fanshawe residence, murdered the master of the house, rendered the mistress insensible, but stole nothing?" pressed Holmes.

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Mrs Fanshawe is our only lead in this case," he admitted. "And that is why it I so important that you restore her to us, Dr Watson!"

It was the doctor's turn to look uncomfortable. "I am still of the opinion that Scotland Yard should consult a specialist on nervous disorders," he grumbled.

"The Yard is determined to get their man," Holmes reminded Watson.

"Or woman!" objected Lestrade.

"Or woman," frowned Holmes, as the cab finally pulled to a stop.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

_A/N: Sorry for the delay. I was waffling between characterizations._

The policeman stationed outside the house greeted Lestrade as the Scotland Yard detective and his two companions approached the door. A strong smell of decaying lilies was coming from the wilting wreath suspended with a crepe ribbon from the brass knocker. The constable opened the door for the three men, but stood back, remaining outside.

As their eyes were adjusting to the gloom of the hallway, a shadow materialized and took on the appearance of the butler. "Inspector Lestrade," he bowed slightly.

"Good morning, Dobson. Is Mrs Whitemore in?"

"I will tell her that you wish to see her, sir. If you gentlemen would please wait in the drawing room, she will be with you shortly." The butler smoothly melted back into the shadows after opening a nearby door to an adjoining room.

The drawing room was furnished in oak, with green wallpaper and a quantity of artistic knick-knacks arranged on shelves and occasional tables. An aspidistra flourished in one corner, and pampas grass towered from a Chinese vase by an Oriental screen. The rooms spoke of a cultured and fashionable mistress. The large mirror above the fireplace was covered with black crepe, however, which lent the room a somber atmosphere.

A rustle at the door announced the arrival of Mrs Whitemore. She was a stocky middle-aged woman, without defining features. Dressed in mourning, she wore her hair arranged simply, with no jewelry as adornment except the wedding band on her left hand. The men rose, and she acknowledged them with a nod. "Inspector Lestrade," she said with a note of weariness in her voice.

"Mrs Whitemore, I have brought these gentlemen to consult on the case. This is Dr Watson, whom I have asked to examine Mrs Fanshawe and provide his opinion on her case. And this," Lestrade nodded in Holmes' direction, "Is Mr Holmes. He will… uh… also consult."

Mrs Whitemore sighed as she sank into a chair, and motioned for the men to do the same. "I had hoped that you had come with good news, or at least to remove the constable from outside the door. How long are we to broadcast our shame to the neighbours?"

"Solving murders is a long business," said Lestrade patronisingly.

"No doubt you know best," Mrs Whitemore continued. "And I cannot obstruct the march of justice, but my sister-in-law needs to be fitted for her mourning clothes for the funeral. We have already had to order ready-mades from Peter Robinson's, and not a dressmaker, because of the urgency. I'm afraid her clothes won't be ready in time as it is, and if she is now to undergo another medical exam, she may have to wear my castoffs! As you can imagine, that is most unsuitable to her position."

"I am sympathetic to your concerns about appearances, madam," said Watson in a soothing tone. "I can assure you that I intend only to ask your sister-in-law a few questions. I would not wish to disturb her any further at this sensitive time, or to interfere with the arrangements for the funeral. I am here to help, and hope that what I learn from my interview with Mrs Fanshawe can bring this case to a speedier conclusion/"

Mrs Whitemore nodded. "Very well, then." She tugged on the rope for the bell, and once a servant had appeared instructed her. "See that Mrs Fanshawe can receive visitors, and inform me once she is ready."

Lestrade explained to the two men. "We have confined the widow to her rooms for the time being. Although she is a suspect, she is little more than an invalid in her present state, and I considered it more humane to keep the lady confined to her house."

"She is under house arrest, and yet she has not been formally charged," protested Mrs Whitemore, who had overheard.

"Do you think she ought to have been?" inquired Holmes.

Mrs Whitemore coloured. "My brother may have made a rash decision to wed a girl half his age, and bestow his fortune on her, but he had enough reasons to repent of his marriage without suspecting his wife of being a cold-blooded murderess!"

"They did not enjoy a happy marriage?" pressed Holmes.

"It is not for me to speak ill of the dead, Mr Holmes. I can only tell you that my brother did not see his wish for the blessing of children fulfilled, and so his legacy had to end only with a wife below him in class, without any legitimate heirs to his name and fortune. And now his reputation is besmirched by the cruel gossip about his untimely death."

Holmes continued his inquisition. "So you do not agree with the gossip, and do not think that Mrs Fanshawe wished to gain access to her fortune sooner by killing her husband?"

Mrs Whitemore had had enough. "Then she would be an ungrateful girl, indeed. She had everything a woman of her position could desire. But Mr Holmes: a killer such as that would not rely on her sister-in-law to run her household for her."

Lestrade explained again. "Mrs Fanshawe seems to have lost her memory completely that night. She cannot recognize the servants, nor direct them in even the simplest household tasks. Mrs Whitemore has arranged all that in the meantime."

"I cannot stay indefinitely, of course. I will have to return to my husband and children within the month. But it is my duty to my brother to see that the household he built does not go to ruin because of his wife's hysteria."

"You do not believe that her distress is genuine?" asked Watson, making a note in his notepad.

"I have lost two infants, buried my parents, and now my own brother. I understand grief, Dr Watson. But I also understand duty. It is irresponsible to lapse so in one's duties to house and home. It is not womanly," asserted Mrs Whitemore.

"But if she has really lost her memory?" asked Watson.

"You must determine that, of course, Doctor. I would not presume to meddle in medicine," she said, chastened. "I just find it very implausible to believe that anyone could lose all trace of one's identity from a mere fall. It has been days now, and she has made no sign of recovery, while all the world keeps on keeping on. I have to question her motives in persisting in this behavior."

"We physicians are only beginning to understand how delicate the brain is as an organ of intellect. And in a female, where mental powers are naturally underdeveloped, a physical injury added to the shock of losing her husband and protector could very well result in such an upset," mused Watson.

Holmes smiled slightly. "You teeter on the brink of making a conclusion without evidence, my friend. But you may shortly redeem yourself, for if I am not mistaken, the maid is here to tell us that Mrs Fanshawe can see you." Indeed, he was not mistaken, and the Doctor was shown upstairs in due course.

"Permit me, if I may, Mrs Whitemore, to ask you a few questions about your late brother," said Holmes, lingering as the Doctor left. "Was he an impulsive man?"

"No, a man in his profession cannot afford to be. He often delighted in reminding me so."

"Then how do you explain his marriage to Mrs Fanshawe? I have heard it described as unusually quick. Would you say it was out of character?"

Mrs Whitemore pursed her lips. "My brother was not a natural husband," she began tentatively. "I believed, and I think he thought so as well, that he would remain a bachelor until the end of his days."

"And yet he contracted this marriage?" pressed Holmes.

"Yes. He must have had his reasons."

"You do not think that they were the usual ones in such a union?" Lestrade, who had been listening attentively, attempted to conceal a snort behind a fit of coughing.

Mrs Whitemore took a deep breath. "The advice books tell a man to look for several things in his bride. Financial solvency is important. My sister-in-law was not poor, but she was very inferior to him in that regard. With his own wealth, he can be forgiven for overlooking that.

'A bride should have social connections, so she can help her husband in his business. Again, the woman my brother chose was of a lower class than he, and could not do any such thing effectively. But perhaps he thought that if he had done well enough alone for all those years, that he did not require whatever feeble help a spouse could give him in parlour entertainment.

'Some sneered at the news of his marriage because they thought him a fool for love. She was much younger than he, yes, but she is no beauty. Here is a portrait of her," Mrs Whitemore passed a photograph in a silver frame across to Holmes. It showed a woman with deeply-set eyes, perhaps a little too close together, a long patrician nose, a high forehead, and slight plumpness around her jaw, perhaps a sign of a tendency toward stoutness.

"Did he marry for an heir, then?" suggested Holmes as he examined the photograph, and then the frame itself. "A much younger woman, as you say, with little else to recommend her…"

Mrs Whitemore spread her hands. "As I have already said, he was expected to die a bachelor. And they have no children."

"But they had a happy marriage?" pressed Holmes, passing the framed photograph back to the bereaved sister.

"I never inquired as to the emotional satisfaction of the union," Mrs Whitemore replied crisply. "I only witnessed the very beginning of their conjugal life, upon their return from their wedding trip, when they behaved conventionally. He did right by her, certainly. He gave her this house and many fine things according to her station."

A ghost of a smile passed Holmes' lips. "Thank you, Mrs Whitemore, you have been most informative."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Once Watson had left the room, Lestrade began to look uncomfortable. Avoiding looking at Holmes, he turned to Mrs Whitemore and said with a studied offhandedness, "By the way, Mrs Whitemore, the coroner is ready to return the body to the family."

The lady clasped her hands together. "At long last, I can make the funeral arrangements! You must excuse me, gentlemen, this will not wait. It would be improper to delay any longer." She rose, and the men rose with her as a mark of respect. But as she swept out of the room, she muttered under her breath, "By the way, indeed…"

"Mrs Whitemore!" Holmes called. "Before you go, I wonder if you might answer one last question for me. Do you recall what your sister-in-law's maiden name was?"

Mrs Whitemore, all impatience, gave Holmes a strange look. "Black, of course. Lydia Black."

Smiling again, Holmes waved his hand dismissively. "Thank you, Mrs Whitemore. That will be all."

Not giving Lestrade a moment's respite, Holmes turned to the Inspector. "You mentioned that you had interviewed Mr Fanshawe's solicitor. Is he still in the house?"

"He is," Lestrade said.

A moment passed, marked by the gentle ticking of a hidden clock, before Holmes was forced to ask, "Might I have the privilege of speaking with him? Just to assuage my personal curiosity about one or two details of the case, while Watson is engaged with the patient."

"He is engaged in sorting out Mr Fanshawe's papers. What he finds may prove important, and I would not want to disturb him in his work, Mr Holmes," Lestrade replied carefully.

"So you have said, my dear Lestrade. But won't you indulge me in my amateur hobby?"

Lestrade frowned, unhappy to have been caught without any further excuses to stall the detective. Silently, he walked to the door, nodding with a quick motion of his head for Holmes to follow.

Across the hallway, at the front of the house, was the master's study. It was expensively furnished with heavy mahogany furniture, but everything was functional. The walls were lined not with tomes of classical literature, but with compendiums on law, finance, and insurance. Instead of a decorative freestanding globe, one wall was papered with a map of the Empire, and pins marked the locations of assets. There was even a telephone on the heavy desk, behind which a man of an ascetic constitution sat, sorting papers.

Lestrade nodded to the constable posted in a corner of the room, permitting him to leave. The thin man looked up at the visitors. "Nothing yet, Inspector," he said shortly, adjusting his spectacles.

"Very well, Mr Leeds. Keep looking and inform me as soon as you find any correspondence that might shed light on this matter," Lestrade answered. "Meanwhile, can you explain to Mr Holmes here what you have discovered thus far?"

Mr Leeds pursed his lips in concentration, and put down the documents in his hands, gathering his thoughts. "I have been asked by Scotland Yard to sort through Mr Fanshawe's private papers, both those stored at his place of business and those in his home, and to report on anything which might suggest a motive or suspect in his murder, sir."

"And what have you found so far, Mr Leeds?" asked Holmes.

"Unfortunately, I have not discovered any easy answers. Mr Fanshawe was deeply personally involved in his company – to my knowledge, he never employed a personal secretary – and so I have been forced to acquaint myself as much with his system of book-keeping as with the contents of his correspondence. Whenever I encounter accounts or receipts, I set them aside as objects of interest."

"So you believe that the motive for this crime was money?" pressed Holmes.

"Mr Fanshawe had amassed a large personal fortune, as his will testified," said Mr Leeds.

"But I understood that the main beneficiary of this fortune was his wife?" clarified Holmes.

"That is correct," the solicitor replied, but did not continue. Any further insights the solicitor might have been willing to share were interrupted by the entrance of Dr Watson into the study.

"Excuse the interruption," he apologised. "Inspector Lestrade, I wonder if I might be able to consult with Mr Holmes in the garden for a few moments?"

Lestrade raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You have concluded your examination already, Doctor?"

"I wish to consult with Mr Holmes before I continue," answered Watson, glancing at his friend.

"Very well, I cannot interfere. You will find the door to the garden at the end of the hallway outside."

Briskly, Holmes followed Watson through the dim hallway, through a small conservatory and into the dormant garden outside. There were small buds on the plants, but the leaves were covered with the un-dried drops from the earlier rainstorm.

"What is it, old friend?" asked Holmes, his eyes alight with curiosity.

Watson adjusted his waistcoat nervously, and toyed with his watch chain. "This is the strangest case I have ever encountered, Holmes. I will say one thing, I am grateful that Lestrade asked me to consult, and didn't ask for a physician of greater reputation."

"Come, Watson, sit on this bench and tell me plainly – what is the problem with Mrs Fanshawe?" Holmes sat down and encouraged his friend to do the same.

"I read of a case in America, in Brooklyn," said Watson, "where a lady had suffered a terrible accident, and afterwards suffered from nervous attacks. She had a clear case of hysteria: She periodically went blind, underwent convulsions, did not eat, or speak for days. Yet although her conscious faculties were affected, she is said to have developed miraculous powers – the second sight, if you will. She could read the contents of sealed letters, and predict the arrival of guests before they were announced."

"Cheap parlour tricks," scoffed Holmes.

"So I thought," said Watson eagerly. "Until today! Mrs Fanshawe does not recognise her servants, she cannot see without spectacles though her sight was perfect before her accident, she weeps for days on end and speaks nonsense. But Holmes, she knew me! She knew me as soon as I entered the room!"

"Indeed. And how did she greet you?" Holmes said sceptically.

"The maidservant introduced me as Dr Watson, and Mrs Fanshawe, upon taking one look at me, asked if I was Dr John H. Watson of Baker Street!" exclaimed Watson, still visibly shaken by the experience.

"And although you have not run your surgery from our rooms for years, and are quite familiar with the variety of methods by which she may have deduced your identity from watching me practice them throughout our acquaintance, you were so affected by this display that you turned and ran to report it to me? Really, Watson, I am surprised at you. For a medical man, your behaviour was as susceptible as that of a common housewife. We are here to investigate a murder, not to commune with Spiritualism!"

Watson coloured at his friend's reproach, but raised his chin defiantly. "Holmes, I will not take offence at your conclusions, rash though they are. I will prove to you that Mrs Fanshawe's injury has caused her to develop unusual psychic power. Come with me, and you will witness it for yourself."

"Very well, friend," Holmes said as he stood up. "Let us go and encounter this clairvoyant. But if Mrs Fanshawe is found out to be the cunning manipulator and dissembler I suspect her to be, you must permit me to say that I told you so."

"I will shake on it, Holmes," Watson replied eagerly.


	5. Chapter 5

Holmes followed his friend back into the house, and up the grand staircase to the first floor

Chapter Five

A/N: I'm so very sorry for the delay. At last, I have had enough inspiration to go back and revise this thing, and even write some new stuff! But, I'm not a quitter, and this story will be finished… eventually. I would suggest reading from the very beginning, as I have changed things in all the chapters except the first.

Holmes followed his friend back into the house, and up the grand staircase to the first floor. There, in a small sitting room, furnished with low bookcases all around, the walls hung with small oil paintings and china plates, he encountered the recently bereaved Mrs Fanshawe.

She was sitting (somewhat uncomfortably, to Holmes' keen eye) in a low armchair by the unlit fireplace. Dressed in a loose teagown of pale yellow, any colour that had been left in her face was drained in contrast. Her features, striking but inharmonious in the photograph downstairs, were distorted further by swelling. There were bruises under her eyes, and blotches of redness disfigured her otherwise deathly-pale face. A wadded handkershief, which Holmes recognized as belonging to Watson lay beside her. She had obviously been crying. She was now idly playing with the fringe of a lap throw over the arm of her chair. When the two men entered, she started slightly at the sight of Holmes. Recovering, she shook her head forlornly and looked back down at the fringe entwined between her fingers.

"Mrs Fanshawe," Watson began in a friendly tone, "Please allow me to introduce my friend and colleague. He has come to advise me in our investigation of this case. Perhaps you already know who he is?"

Mrs Fanshawe barely raised her head and answered, "He looks like Sherlock Holmes." For some reason, this was accompanied by a sad sort of laugh.

Watson, looking to Holmes, began to perform a sort of mime act of surprise, as if to prove to his friend that what they were witnessing was genuine and unplanned. But Holmes waved him down, and seated himself across from the unfortunate lady.

"My name is unimportant at the moment," he began. "No doubt my friend the good Doctor has already asked you some of the more basic questions, but you will forgive me if I repeat some of them – What is your name?"

Mrs Fanshawe raised an unhappy face to him, but was silent.

"What are you called?" Watson said with an encouraging smile, attempting to be helpful.

"Mrs Fanshawe," the lady replied with some relief.

"And how old are you?" proceeded Holmes.

After a slight pause, Mrs Fanshawe answered hesitantly, "I am 26."

"Do you know where your husband is?"

"He's dead, isn't he?"

"Do you know how he died?"

"No."

"Where were you when he died?"

"I don't know. I just woke up and I was there and people were shouting that Mr Fanshawe was dead."

Holmes put an impatient finger up to his lips, crossing and uncrossing his legs. "And what do you remember from before you woke up?"

Mrs Fanshawe considered this question for a moment. "Nothing relevant," she said at length.

"Nothing relevant!" exclaimed Holmes, leaping from his chair, and pacing the room. "Do not presume to tell me, Mrs Fanshawe, what is and is not relevant in this case! Are you aware, for instance," he said, leaning on the arm of the widow's chair to look directly into her eyes, "that at this moment, the police may be making preparations to arrest you? That the only thing that stands between you and that arrest is dependent on your being absolutely truthful with me?"

Mrs Fanshawe reeled away from him, while Watson rushed to take the lady's pulse. "But I don't know anything!" she cried. "You must believe me, I don't know anything!"

"I don't believe you." Holmes stated plainly, crossing his arms and staring her down. "Your prevarications can only be interpreted as obstructing justice. Mrs Fanshawe," he said calmly, after receiving a warning glare from Watson, "Your husband is dead, and you are the only witness. You are also the police's only suspect. They do not yet have any direct evidence of your guilt, but they are nothing if not convinced. I suggest you tell me everything about yourself and what happened last night, or else I cannot be held responsible for the consequences."

Mrs Fanshawe, tearing her arm away from Watson's ministering grip, ran it through her thin brown hair. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. But I will tell you. I am not Lydia Fanshawe. I don't know how I got here, or why I am expected to answer all these questions about her and her life, but I am not Lydia Fanshawe!"

"If you cannot prove it, the best outcome you can expect for yourself is to be locked away in an asylum," replied Holmes, who had evidently decided that intimidation was the best course of action. "Dr Watson has been called here to provide evidence of either your guilt or your insanity."

Mrs Fanshawe gave another little laugh, like a desperate hiccup. "I'm already locked away, and I feel like I'm mad. What would be the difference?" she shrugged and covered her face in her hands.

"The difference, Mrs Fanshawe," answered Watson, proudly standing tall at his friend's side, "would be that you would not have the assistance of England's greatest private detective. He would not have come here today if he did not suspect you were innocent. He needs your help to provide the proof. As long as you cooperate, I guarantee that he will do his utmost to aid you."

"But I am cooperating! If I can believe that you are Sherlock Holmes, why should you not believe that I am not this Mrs Fanshawe?" The widow's face looked as though it was about to crumble in tears, and she reached for the borrowed handkerchief, twisting it in her hands.

Holmes, exchanging a glance with Watson, reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, and withdrew a white rectangle of cardpaper. Extending it to Mrs Fanshawe, he gave a formal little bow of his head. "Tit for tat, Mrs Fanshawe. When you have decided to cooperate, you will know where to reach me." Turning on his heel, his hand upon the doorknob, he turned again toward the widow. "This is a complex case, and with your help, I may still be able to resolve it in your favour. The police will make no such promises. Good day."

Watson, gathering up his medical bag, gave the bewildered Mrs Fanshawe a last smile. As he shook her hand in parting, he whispered, "He has a terrible bedside manner, but his word is good. I do hope we will hear from you."


End file.
